


Flawed Design

by levitatethis



Category: Fringe, Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-17
Updated: 2009-10-17
Packaged: 2017-10-06 19:16:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levitatethis/pseuds/levitatethis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mohinder thinks he might get a second chance to do the right thing when Peter seeks out his expertise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flawed Design

_“I have to believe in a world outside my own mind. I have to believe that my actions still have meaning, even if I can’t remember them. I have to believe that when my eyes are closed, the world’s still there. Do I believe the world’s still there? Is it still out there?…Yeah. We all need mirrors to remind ourselves who we are. I’m no different.”_   
**-Leonard Shelby, Memento **

 

“Look, I can appreciate how crazy this sounds, but given what I know you’ve seen, how about you cut me some slack?”

Mohinder stops mid stride and turns to look at his companion, the recently introduced Peter Bishop, holding in a steadfast position about five feet behind. Peter is the appearance of rapt seriousness and vague irritation and though Mohinder would love nothing more than to write it off as another example of dramatic grandstanding, there is genuineness to his approach that gives Mohinder pause.

Thrusting his hands in his jean pockets and shifting his shoulder bag to rest against his back, Mohinder shakes off the slight shiver that winks of the chill in the air indicating an early autumn. The tail of his green corduroy blazer bunches up between his arms and hips as he walks back to Peter, a muted contrast in blue jeans and a black leather jacket over top a zipped up gray hoodie.

“How can I possibly help you?” Mohinder asks, not quite dismissively as much as tentatively unsure.

“Hearing me out would be a start.” Peter offers up a half grin like he knows Mohinder’s curiosity has already gotten the better of him and committed him to seeing this—whatever it is—through.

Mohinder looks off to the side at the flush of university students, nine-to-fivers, and the occasional tourist moving along the busy sidewalk just beyond Washington Square. Bringing his attention back to Peter he nods his acquiescence and leads them over to an empty bench where Mohinder drops his bag to rest on the seat next to him and leans back, spreading his legs out slightly in front of him and placing his hands on his lap.

Peter sits hunched forward with his hands grasped between his knees and turns to look his way. “You’re one of the only people around with the scientific background in _enhanced persons_.”

Mohinder keeps his face impassive. If he has learned anything since arriving and subsequently taking up residence in the U.S. it is to keep his cards close to his chest, especially when he feels like someone is too trustworthy. He has been burned before and the dour but necessary side effect is that he is a little colder than the man he was when he first crossed halfway around the world from India.

“I’m not sure what you expect me to know.”

Peter drops his gaze to the ground in disappointment before sitting up straight and angling himself towards Mohinder. “You can save the ‘I have nothing to do with my father’s work’ act. Unlike me you actually followed in your father’s footsteps, even surpassed him. Unless you expect me to believe your genetic work was nothing but a hobby and completely uninfluenced by him?”

Mohinder waits. “You seem to know so much about me so why don’t you tell me?”

Peter raises his left hand, palm forward in a gesture of pacification. “I’m not trying to pick a fight. If you know where to look in the FBI’s files—,”

Mohinder scoffs and rolls his eyes. “No offense but mentioning the FBI doesn’t really entice me to help. I don’t take kindly to shady persons in positions of authority.”

“Yeah, the files mention that too,” Peter muses and whether he is telling the truth or joking is unclear. “Fact is, I don’t blame you, but…my father is very familiar with your fa—with Chandra’s work.”

When Mohinder raises an eyebrow in surprise, Peter continues. “You’re not the only one who read Activating Evolution.”

Rendered speechless by the admission—besides the rarity of meeting someone who read his father’s book is meeting someone who speaks about it without ridiculing skepticism—Mohinder’s stoicism falters briefly and he flits his eyes nervously away from Peter’s suddenly scrutinizing stare.

“Yes, well most consider the book little more than crackpot theorizing,” Mohinder laments quietly, knowing the rather incredible truth it actually details.

“But not you,” Peter says insistently. “And certainly not me. Not now. Not after what I’ve seen.”

Mohinder eyes him expectantly. “Baptism by fire,” he half jokes.

Something like that.” Peter smirks and rolls his head back, face up to the sky and eyes closed in thoughtful contemplation. After a moment his eyes open and he glances at Mohinder then drops his head forward and shifts over to bring his left leg curled up under him on the bench. At the same time he rests his left arm across the top of the backrest. “You’re not the only one who’s father led him into a brave new world. Although you came along more willingly than I did at first.”

“I…” Mohinder considers the confession. “I always believed, but finding proof…it bridges the gap between faith and science.”

He feels a certain affinity to Peter and though he tells himself it should raise a red flag there is something about feeling this kind of mutual connection with another that is incredibly compelling. He pushes down the biting sting of déjà vu.

“Plausible deniability only goes so far,” Peter says. “There comes a point when believing in what science can do is the missing the link.”

Mohinder sighs contemplatively and mirrors Peter, but with his right leg curled up under him and right arm bent on the backrest. “So you’re here on behalf of the FBI or yourself?”

“A bit of both,” Peter admits. “The FBI is using my father as a consultant for strange phenomena cases that they believe his particular scientific background may shed light on. A bit of mad science, if you will.”

“Like the X-Files?” Mohinder wrinkles his brow but smiles affectionately.

“To a point, yes.” Peter drags his left index finger against the grain of the wood. It is a gesture that Mohinder recognizes as nervousness. “It’s called Fringe Division.”

“But you’re not totally on board,” Mohinder states.

Peter’s eyes widen in surprise and his twitchy finger stops.

“I’d rather you be honest with me, especially if you truly desire my help,” Mohinder informs him. “I’ve developed a low tolerance for lies.”

“I used to be a lot more skeptical.”

It’s a definitive statement that doesn’t commit to anything but being open-minded. Considering what Mohinder has been through it’s the best offer he has received in a long time. Still, he has to be sure.

“And your father?” Mohinder leads vaguely.

“Walter Bishop,” Peter replies, his steady gaze seeming to be searching Mohinder’s with a hint of trepidation at the reveal.

Mohinder mulls over the name, recalling it in the back of his mind as one he may have heard Chandra mention to Nirand once upon a time. “I’ve heard of him before…his research?”

“Believe me, it’s far too complicated to explain without him. I can barely get my head around half of it.”

“Then how about the reason you contacted me?” Mohinder cuts to the chase.

Peter looks over his shoulder like he wants to make sure no one is sneaking up behind him then leans into Mohinder’s space and lowers his voice. “A very long time ago, around the time I was a kid and even before that, my father was involved in certain experiments. There were people with special abilities—who may have been evolved or…”

“…biologically created?” Mohinder posits unexpectedly after a drawn out few seconds.

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

“And the point?” Mohinder mutters to himself looking down at the bench.

“Ever read a comic book?”

Mohinder snaps back to attention. “Government weapon.”

“Makes you feel safe, don’t it?” Peter’s words are tinged with sarcasm.

Mohinder muffles a disbelieving laugh. “Taking off where my father stopped there are still so many factors we don’t know. Evolution, synthetics—a mix of both. There’s still so much we don’t know for sure, and only a few who can be trusted.”

“That’s why I’m here,” Peter says.

Mohinder takes a few seconds to properly observe him. There is a cautious openness to his countenance, as if he is holding back from saying too much, a position Mohinder knows very well. He wonders if this is how he appears to others and if it is held against him or as a selling point that he can remain restrained when referring to the near fantastical. The notion that Specials were being tested, used; created before Shanti inspired Chandra is a revelation.

“What can I do for you?” This time Mohinder’s question is more pointed.

Peter purses his lips then begins, “There are people from the study turning up dead, and I’m not talking about natural causes. There is nothing normal about what’s being done to their bodies and…minds.”

Immediately Mohinder tenses and his mind begins spinning and ruling out the first, instinctive and reactionary choice.

But Peter appears to be thinking the same thing. “It’s a bit like—,”

“He’s dead.”

Peter narrows his eyes. “Are you sure?”

“I saw his body burn.” Mohinder shifts again to plant both feet on the ground and face forward. Looking down at his hands he adds, “For whatever that’s worth.”

He has entertained suspicions that the man he watched burn, the killer finally rendered into oblivion, the man who broke his trust so devastatingly when it seemed the only thing Mohinder had, is not dead and gone. He can’t pinpoint the warning sign except to say he can feel Sylar’s presence along the back of his neck like a ghost seeking possession.

“The M.O. sounds a lot like his early work,” Peter shares thoughtfully.

_Codeword for grotesque_, Mohinder thinks. It’s been a long time since Sylar deemed that fun (it was never necessary) and he wonders if it is a return to old techniques for a specific—personal—reason.

“Could it be an accomplice? Someone who learned from him?” Peter asks.

Mohinder recalls the mention of a teenager named Luke who traveled with Sylar for a bit. From the information relayed, Luke fit the type who would not only be drawn to Sylar but seek to impress him through copying him down to the cruelest bone in his body. But there was a big difference between Sylar and Luke, and Mohinder is unsure what role that difference plays.

“Were the victims killed and displayed for the sake of it or was there anything that resembled some sort of surgical angle to the attacks?”

“I…” Peter stumbles, confused. “I’m not sure.”

Mohinder explains, “Sylar’s kills were to show the control and power he could wield like an evolutionary weapon. He wanted to show how far he could go, that he was unparalleled and untouchable. But more importantly he took from those people what made them biologically unique. He collected it for his own arsenal. Over time, that took precedence over the vulgar displays. An accomplice, unless he has the same power—and I’ve yet to see ‘intuitive aptitude’ in another—could do the killings but would gain nothing further from them beyond the pleasure of the attack.”

Mohinder takes in Peter’s faint hint of dejection (presumably at a theory he was counting on being dismissed or at least qualified early on) and feels the need to not dash his expectations completely. To even approach a stranger for help in such a complex matter speaks to the confusion and urgency he must be experiencing.

A holdover from his mother to put someone who is believed to be in a genuine state of distress at ease, Mohinder gently squeezes Peter’s left forearm. “Without knowing that actual details, I can’t say for sure. But even at his most monstrous, Sylar’s murders were very methodological. Each element of torture he dished out carried his specific fingerprint. Nothing was haphazard, and that continued through to when he moved beyond the grand displays to a more precise method of removing his victim’s brains. It was just as much a show of efficiency as it was a declaration that he had evolved beyond the earlier incarnation.”

“You do profiling in your spare time?” Peter queries with amusement.

“Only when it comes to Sylar.” Mohinder shrugs, a muted smile playing on his lips. “I know…_knew_ him in a way I never thought possible. And even now I don’t know how much of the surface I cracked.”

A couple of drawn out minutes pass during which they watch people walk by them. Finally Peter breaks their bubbled silence. “Would you be able to help us?”

Mohinder does not respond immediately. He is still coming to terms with his life being flipped upside down since returning to the U.S. after taking his father’s cremated remains home. To purposely jump into yet another potentially—likely—firestorm could be reckless. However saying no outright is not an option. He considers that maybe it’s the ego stroking of Peter seeking him out specifically as an expert, actually acknowledging and respecting what he can bring to the table, that he can _help_—really do some good—this time.

After all, wasn’t that part of his original purpose behind finding and researching evolved persons? Hadn’t he wanted to eventually get to the point where he could help them control their abilities (both through isolating the anomaly or helping it manifest in a specific way) so that these people could have control over their lives? He wanted them to have choices.

He was sidetracked once (completely sideswiped and sent careening off the road) but now another opportunity is presenting itself. Doesn’t he owe what he could provide to all those innocent people? To his family? To himself? Maybe destiny is knocking at his door and he would be remiss to ignore it.

Besides, on a far more personal level that no one but himself needs to know, he is driven by the possibility of uncovering yet another mysterious facet of Sylar’s being. The man has continued to haunt him, dogging his steps, looming over his shoulders, every step of the way. He is the alpha and omega Patient Zero beginning, the deadly boogieman who terrorized, and the con-artist would-be friend that has folded himself inextricably into Mohinder’s life. Sylar’s “death” did not bring the peace it should have. If Mohinder can figure out another part of him, just to know why the elusive figure feels so bound to him, there may be some chance to let it go.

But that selfish reasoning he can keep to himself.

“At the very least I may be able to offer some insight.” Mohinder smiles.

Peter returns the grin; the relief that rushes over him obvious in the emphatic way sits up straight and firmly squeezes Mohinder’s right shoulder. “That’s great! You don’t know how badly I needed to hear that.”

Caught off guard and amused by the display, Mohinder flushes slightly. There is something about feeling like one has a purpose that goes a long way. “So we’re going to Boston?” He tries to recall where Peter said this special research was headquartered.

“Harvard.” Peter nods.

Mohinder sighs wistfully. “It’s been awhile since I was at a university…”

“You one of those people who waxes poetic about the smell of books?”

Mohinder laughs loudly, for the first time since they met feeling at ease. “I’ve been known to gaze longingly at their spines.”

“Dewey Decimal purist?” Peter smirks.

“When I’m feeling nostalgic. Otherwise I’ve kept up with the rest of society and the technological age.” Mohinder raises a challenging eyebrow.

Another few seconds of quiet passes but not Mohinder feels more comfortable rather than guardedly on edge. He looks behind him, further into the park, then back to Peter who is staring off the other way.

“If you’re working with the FBI, I presume you have an agent assigned to you?” Mohinder wonders aloud.

Peter looks back at him. “Ah yeah, Agent Dunam—Olivia—and she’s not a completely skeptical Scully. That’s probably more my role if anything. And then there’s Astrid Farnsworth, a computer expert amongst many other things.”

“I see ‘one of us, one of them’ is a far reaching tactical concept,” Mohinder mutters.

Peter wrinkles his brow in confusion.

“It’s nothing.” Mohinder placates with a quick smile and shake of his head, but try as he might to block them old worries from bad past experiences stir below the surface.

“I’ll need to stop by my apartment,” he says distractedly.

“Of course,” Peter explains, jumping to his feet and left waiting as Mohinder remains seated. “Sorry, I’m not trying to rush you.”

“But time is of the essence,” Mohinder states thoughtfully, understanding the urgency yet nervous at what lies ahead.

“Yes,” Peter nods, his expression grave.

Mohinder stands up and slides the strap of his bag over his head. He squeezes Peter’s shoulders before leading them both out of the park. “Then there’s no time to waste.”

A cool breeze clips through Mohinder’s coat and he pulls at the front to force the material to act as a tighter barrier around his body. He is mindful of Peter’s steady pace at his side.

 

 


End file.
